When I was little, I used to play pretend games where I was a married woman with three children and a dog with only two legs, (usually my stuffed toys and rolled blankets), a useless husband, and dead-broke.
I wish I had a reasonable explanation for any of this, especially the dog. I don’t really remember what happened to my husband, but given that I was single handedly raising three children in what I can only assume was a financially unstable household, I’m going to assume this pretended “husband” wasn’t contributing much. Perhaps he left us, or was at work? Maybe he was sitting somewhere doing absolutely nothing while his wife (me) struggled to feed three imaginary children and a two-legged dog. The possibilities were endless. All I knew was that I had bills to pay.
Except I didn’t. Why wouldI? I was around the age of a child who still needed help opening a packet of biscuits.
I would sit there, completely in my own little world, switching between characters as though I were in a Broadway production. One minute, I was a tired mother dealing with three extremely demanding children, and the next, I was one of the children throwing a tantrum. Somewhere in the background, the two legged dog was making my life even harder. I was the writer and the director, the entire cast as well as the audience. The production budget was zero, there were no reviews ever, and yet I was still giving every ounce of energy I had into this. Imagine the stress I had as a 4 year old. Hectic.
The best part was that I took this extremely seriously. There was no breaking character, only commitment. I had a family to run. If my imaginary children needed something, I had to provide it. If there was a crisis, I had to solve it. I was basically putting all my blood, sweat, and tears into domestic labour for people who didn’t exist.
When I look back at it from my parents perspective, they must have had some interesting moments. Imagine having high hopes for your child from when they were born; that they would become a doctor or an engineer. Instead, you walk past your childs room and hear her having a heated conversation with an imaginary person. Luckily my parents saw this and considered this creativity instead of thinking I was schizophrenic or something.
My other great childhood talent was being spectacularly jealous whenever my parents showed affection to other children.
My mother could be having the most innocent interaction with the neighbour’s baby, smiling at it and pinching its cheek, or picking it up for a few seconds, and I would be watching from the back like I had just discovered my imaginary husband was having an affair. The same way, my dad could be giving a little attention to another kid and I’d just question my entire life bond with my dad. This other child could barely speak, probably had no idea what was happening, and yet was still involved in a heated rivalry with me. This one year old baby was probably my first enemy. This baby was just sitting there, chewing on its singular biscuit for the past hour, while I decided that he was a threat to my position in the family hierarchy.
The funniest part is that I had absolutely no competition at home, and yet I was still behaving like I was fighting for custody of my own parents. There was no sibling stealing my toys or demanding attention. So, I simply assumed every other child was a threat and would replace me.
Looking back, being an only child meant I was never really short of company. If nobody was around to play with me, I simply invented people. If I needed drama, I just created it. If I ever needed someone to fight with, I had that neighbour’s one-year-old baby. .
So, to everyone who thinks only children are stuck up, spoilt, lonely people, I would like to present my childhood as evidence. I was a mother of three, a wife to a questionable man, the sole provider for a two-legged dog. And all this was before I even turned 5.
Honestly, I don’t think I needed a sibling. All I needed was a better husband and a good dad for those poor kids.